Clipped Wings
by snarkmcsnark
Summary: "Yes, it's stressful and, at times, it can be harrowing; but it's not like I've developed deviant sexual fantasies since joining the unit. I don't sneak around with Liv so I can get it out of my system long enough for me to come home and play the part of a devoted husband. I wish infidelity could be that simple, but not when love is involved."
1. Chapter 1

**AN:** _Hello. So once upon a time I watched this show called Magic City, and like everything I watch on TV, I superimpose SVU characters into the story. That's the story of how this story started. However, this fic is nothing like the plot of that show apart from the fact that the first scene takes place in a hotel. Idk why I started with that. Anyway, I've had this sitting in my drafts since early April, and I told myself I wouldn't upload it until I finished it. But fuck it. I'm not going to continue writing something that isn't going to hold people's interest, so let me know if I should keep going._

 _The story is mostly canon but I mess with the timeline. It's present day but everyone is like 12-15 years younger. One prominent character is in an AU profession. I try to keep them close to their character's personality to the best of my abilities, so hopefully we can look past any hang-ups with AU fics. Each chapter will have four vignettes written in first-person; the character will be indicated at the top. I like first-person because you can never really trust the narrator. (:_

 _ETA (11/2017): I've made a few changes to chapter one. I plan on updating this story a little more regularly (hopefully) with my other story, Hush, wrapping up soon. Please read and review._

* * *

 ** _Olivia_**

In this life there are two kinds of whores. The first assumes the title but does not let it define her. She's a modern-day, independent woman — a card-carrying feminist in touch with her sexuality. She saunters confidently into a hotel bar and takes her pick of admirers. When she's through with them, she orders strawberries and champagne room service from the line in the presidential suite. A graduate school student studying Behavioural Psychology, paying off a semester's tuition as if she were buying a cup of coffee from a street cart. She lives in an industrial loft in Brooklyn, not because she can't afford to live on the island, but because she has the financial freedom to favour the gentrified aesthetics.

Most women don't want to admit they want to be this whore. Most men claim they don't want a woman who may lack self-respect simply because she exchanges sex for money. But chances are, if they're truly being honest with themselves, they do.

"Benson, do you copy?"

I tuck a few strands of hair behind my ear and take the opportunity to adjust the earpiece. "Yeah, copy that, Cap."

I'm in position. The lobby of the Viceroy, a luxury boutique hotel two blocks south of Central Park, is humming with a composed energy. Stationed out on the street is an unmarked police van where Captain Cragen and my partner, Elliot Stabler, are sitting tight.

Soon, Elliot will be coming through the lobby, past the elevators, and into the Kingside Lounge. Cherry wood walls and art nouveau sconces line his path; his audience made up of clientele who spring upwards of $600 a night for a room. I wait for the right person before I give my signal.

Pulling a Chanel compact and lipstick from my clutch, I use the mirror to check the activity behind me.

"You trying to pretty yourself up for me, Liv?" Elliot's voice is rich and thick in my ear. Almost as if his lips slide over the skin, teeth playfully nipping into my earlobe.

I clear my throat. "You wish," I reply without moving my lips, except to pucker up and reapply the mauve shade. If being a detective doesn't pan out, perhaps I could always put this skill set to good use and become a ventriloquist. The story of a wooden puppet girl with a penchant for dishonesty.

I glide my finger over my brow as I survey the reflection over my shoulder. Thankfully, my vanity doesn't seem to be out of the ordinary as no one in the lobby stares at me with suspicion. Except for that older gentleman at the check-in desk. He keeps glancing my way, his hooded eyes wandering the length of my aerosol-bronzed legs.

"She's here." The alert is sent to the squad, setting our plan into motion.

The second kind of whore is the one no one knows about until she's caught. She can be this independent woman; or she can be _so_ dependent on her man, it physically pains her to imagine life without him. It's this tightness in the chest, can't breathe kind of pain. She's the kind of woman who straps on a pair of four-inch stilettos, throws on a dress that makes her feel like a million bucks, attracts a string of thirsty suitors, and lets them off gently with a coy smile. Yes, she's single. But, no, she isn't available. For this whore, it isn't _just_ about sex. It's about a much deeper betrayal. It's about love.

This whore is a second grade detective climbing the ranks of the NYPD. The only reason she can barely afford to keep up with rent for her one-bedroom in the Upper West Side is because she signed her lease before the building became rent-regulated. The people she's met on the job — the ones who thank her for her service — admire her for her courage and strength. They applaud her for representing women in a male-dominated field. She works hard and earns her colleagues' respect. But when she clocks out and sneaks her married partner into her bed, all that respect is thrown like caution to the wind.

She's the whore hidden in the thick of lies. And this whore's reflection is staring right back at me.

* * *

 ** _Nick_**

An angel moves through the room like breathing is easy. And I swear to Christ, it's far from it, as this angel steals the breath right from my lungs.

I don't even realize I'm frozen. A dish cloth loosely wrapped around one hand and a glass nearly slipping from my grasp. The woman is halfway across the room when I stop what would have been a sad display of my lack of game. Not only that, I can already imagine my colleagues (Stabler, in particular) ripping me a new one for almost screwing up. I can already hear the water-cooler talk back in the squad room. _You guys hear about Amaro — rookie detective who can't even play a minor role in an undercover sting. Thought he was a Narc. Pretending should come easy to those guys… If he can't even do that, what can he do?_

Weeks of dedicated research and planning all jeopardized because he can't help himself from feeling this magnetic pull to the wrong girl.

She slides onto a stool and rests her tiny purse on the marble top bar. I can't imagine the purse holding anything more than a cellphone and maybe a pack of smokes. Blue eyes, as vibrant as her dress, meet mine. She raises a brow, ready to order a drink and probably assuming I'm a terrible bartender. She isn't wrong.

"Jack on the rocks," she says coolly. Her lashes flutter as she curls her lips into a coy smile. "Please."

 _Well, she did say please_. I scoop up some ice and pour the amber liquid into the glass, inching the finished drink toward her. She runs her finger around the rim, before taking a tentative sip. Her rosy lips take on a shine as she sets the drink back down. Her tongue darts out, licking the gloss of whiskey from her pout.

"You staring at me all night, sugar, or are you going to tell me all about Mr. Fitzpatrick."

 _Right._ I have something else to do besides pretending to know goes into an Old Fashioned. Munch and Fin went over this with me just hours earlier. The term for it was the 'hook-up'. And suddenly I wish there was another term for the person who facilitated meetings between escorts and their clients. Pimp would have been too much of a stretch as I wasn't supposed to know these women. It's the men — the guests in the hotel — that pay me to ensure they're getting top-quality escorts with the highest level of discretion. Anything that happens past the elevators are none of my concern.

Or so they think.

I nod over to the entrance, where Mr. Fitzpatrick — a.k.a. Detective Elliot Stabler — is scanning the room. I give her the quick rundown on her client, a Chicago trader in town for the week to meet with Wall Street stockbrokers. Her face is blank, unimpressed. "He's married with four kids —" which is true, "— and he hates his frigid wife." And judging from my own personal observations of the man, the last part is likely also true.

After giving her the backstory on her client, I expect her to start stalking her prey. But she doesn't move. She stays seated on her stool, fingering the rim of her drink before asking for a refill. From the corner of my eye, I catch the scowl Elliot sends my way as I execute my job as bartender and serve my customer another drink.

"You change your mind about Fitzpatrick?"

She lowers her head and smiles. It might be the alcohol that causes her to blush, or at least that's what I like to tell myself when I hear what she says next. "God, no. Have you seen him?" She bites into her bottom lip and sets the glass back down. "But I like to keep 'em waiting. It keeps them wanting. It makes them angry… They cut to the chase when they're pissed off." At this point, the whole social worker with the badge characterization is triggered, and all I want to do is ask her questions and figure her out.

I glance over at Elliot, then back at this woman who has no idea what she's about to get herself into. She looks pretty pleased with herself. She knows what she's doing; there are tell-tale signs of impatience etched on Elliot's face. She's screwing with their timeline, and here I am letting her. I've now accepted the inevitable fact that I'm going to get more than an earful back at the 1-6.

She twirls a lock of hair around her finger as she rests her cheek on her palm. "He can wait. 'Sides, I want to stay and spend a little more time here with you."

I swallow hard. I wonder if it's picked up on the wire taped to my chest.

She runs a manicured finger along the white marble, swirls of grey and silver picking up the dim glow of the lights overhead. "Have you ever fucked on top of this bar?"

 _Dios._

"W-Why'd you ask?" I try to act aloof, but my voice shakes like a leaf in October.

"I don't know," She pouts, before hopping off the barstool. She slips a hundred-dollar bill in my hand, letting her touch linger for far longer than a typical transaction. "Seems like something I'd want to try."

I forget to breathe. Again.

And when my mind reorients to my surroundings and I remember by name and my social security number and the fact that I don't really work as a bartender; and, no, there's no chance I'm ever playing out this dirty fantasy, I realize I'm in deep shit.

She's no angel. She's the devil.

* * *

 ** _Elliot_**

She's young. Only a few years shy of my eldest, Maureen. On top of all the reasons why it's inappropriate to be out on a date with this woman, the fact that she could very well be my daughter is at the top of the list.

I make a note of the other similarities she shares with my girls. The flaxen hair, innocent blue eyes, and a tacit desire to be anywhere but here. Anywhere but close to me.

Appearances lie, I know that. She might be smiling, laughing, and accidentally (intentionally) brushing her leg against mine; but I can sense the distance between us. She knows how to make a man feel wanted, but I can't stop thinking of our conversation as a transaction. She listens to me run my rehearsed lines on the economic climate, my stressful job, and how _I'm really not a bad guy._

"You're just looking for release," she says reassuringly. "I understand, Mr. Fitzpatrick."

"Please, call me Eric."

She reaches across the table to place her hand over mine. I notice that she's painted her nails the same blood red colour as my rebellious Kathleen.

Pressing her lips together, she smiles softly, empathically — almost like Olivia. "You need to relax and unload all that stress before returning home to your wife. I get it." She lifts her drink to her lips. "Everyone's better off this way."

I wish I could believe what she's selling. It would be a lot easier to live with the affair if I knew no one would get hurt.

The idea of acting on the sexual tension between me and my partner having some sort of protective benefit for my wife is as ludicrous as it sounds. I don't cheat on Kathy so I can spare her from the perversion that consumes me as a result of this job. _Yes_ , it's been stressful and, at times, it can be harrowing; but it's not like I've developed deviant sexual fantasies since joining the unit. I haven't been sneaking around so I can get it out of my system long enough for me to come home and play the part of a devoted husband.

I wish infidelity could be that simple, but not when love is involved.

"Is this your first time?"

My eyes blink open, remembering I'm at a hotel bar and not tangled up in blankets and duvets at an Upper West Side apartment. I tilt my head to the side. "Excuse me?"

She leans across the table, inviting me to meet her halfway so she can clarify the question with a little more discretion. "Is this your first time with an escort?"

"No… Not really," I reply. "But this is the first time she's so pretty she makes me nervous."

 _Good save, Stabler._

Her gaze falls to the table as she bites on her bottom lip. _Adorable_ , I consider as I watch the rose-coloured flush tinge on her cheeks and the tendrils of spun gold fall over her eyes. I tuck the strands behind her ear and slowly tilt her chin up, our eyes meeting.

 _Definitely not my daughter._

"Angel," I whisper, stroking the line of her jaw with my thumb. "Is that your real name or is that what the agency picked out for you."

She frowns and pulls away. "No one chooses for me."

Her stare turns to ice and her arms cross over the table. _Shit._ If I don't recover, she's going to close herself off and this operation would be a bust. And the last thing I need is that rookie, Amaro, watching me crash and burn.

"I'm sorry, sweetheart." Hand on my chest to convey just how earnest I am about the apology. Her expression softens, a hint of surprise at his words; but she doesn't resume flirting. She stands her guard, which is frustrating as it couldn't be more counterintuitive for a sex worker.

Going for the kill, I reach into my pocket to retrieve the silver keycard. Room 1406 — a deluxe suite with a king-sized bed and a corner view of Central Park. Sliding the plastic across the table, I slip it just below her palm. "What do you say we get out of here?"

She wraps her fingers over the card, a subtle smile playing on her lips. "I thought you'd never ask."

* * *

 ** _Amanda_**

The elevator doors slide open to reveal an older couple. The woman adorned with pearls and a crocodile Birkin. She wraps herself securely around her man, who's too distracted by his phone call to give a damn. He doesn't make eye contact with me or my client, Mr. Fitzpatrick; but I don't miss the once-over his wife gives me.

Green reptilian eyes rake over my body, from the strappy black Louboutins to the loose waves pinned atop my head. The older woman sneers, raising her chin before dragging her husband to the hotel lobby.

 _Relax, lady._ I may be a whore, but I don't jump at every man in an Armani suit.

My date for the evening holds his hand out, ushering the two of us inside the stifling box. Mirrors on the walls don't leave much room to hide, not that I'd need to with this one. He seems easygoing enough, and, for once in quite a long time, I might actually enjoy his company.

Mr. Fitzpatrick is nice. He's already proven to be apologetic when he doesn't have to be.

I'm not going to lie; being handsome helps his case. He's easy on the eyes with those baby blues, that charming smile, and a body that looks more Fort Hamilton than Wall Street. Strong and built like a tree — _I bet he likes to take control._

The ride up to the 14th floor is quiet. He interlaces his fingers, head tilted to watch the numbers light up. I cross over to where he's standing and finger the pointed end of his tie. His throat bobs, eyes never straying from the numbers. He's nervous. They always are until they're safe behind the locked doors of a hotel room.

 _Fucking security cameras._

"When you talked to the bartender downstairs, did you ask for a blonde?"

He looks at me, studying my face for a moment, before nodding.

"Is she a brunette, is that why?" I ask, tracing the edge of his belt buckle with my finger.

"Who is?"

I chuckle softly, closing the proximity between us. "Your wife. Who else?"

"Oh," he draws out the word. His hand rubs the back of his neck before he shrugs. "Actually, my wife is a blonde, too. I guess you can say I've got a thing for blondes." His eyes squint, as if his mind has briefly travelled to a different time, a different place.

"You want to be with someone who reminds you of happier times."

"What?"

I flick the leather end of his belt and take a step back. "Not that I've been doing this long or anything, but I've learned that men who choose escorts that look like their wives tend to be nostalgic. They hold onto hope that one day they can rekindle something that, turns out, isn't always guaranteed to be for-better-or-for-worse."

He arches a brow, his lips pressed in a firm line.

"But if you had gone for someone different. I don't know — dark hair, olive skin, curves in all the right places." I smirk, describing the type of woman that universally appealed to all men. It probably doesn't help with my return business, but I can't help but try to figure out these men's motivations. If they want to take a piece of me, then I should be allowed a piece of them. Something more than a couple thousand dollars for a few hours of company.

"If I had gone for someone different?"

"They you probably no longer loved your wife… or even the idea of your wife."

He frowns. "Let's drop it. Let's not talk about my marriage."

Raising my hands in surrender, I smile slyly. "Sorry, officer."

His body tenses just as the elevator arrives on his floor, doors sliding open. _Note to self: Mr. Fitzpatrick looks like he isn't much for handcuffs and role-play._

I lead the way, already knowing where to turn without so much as a glance at the arrows on the walls. I had been to this hotel before. It was a different client in the same suite four floors up. I remember it having a spectacular fucking view.

"Seems you know your way 'round here." He follows me down the end of the hall.

Pressing my back against the door, I smirk as he nudges his head for me to open it. I twirl his card between my fingers and push the rounded corner against his chest. Firm, just as I expected.

"Come on, Angel. Don't be a tease." He groans and it's sexy as hell.

Tugging on his silk tie, I pull him down until we're eye level. His stare is intense, hungry, and tempting. I don't even care if he clearly still has another woman on his mind; that never stops me from doing my job, getting off, and collecting.

"Why wait until we're both inside?" I whisper inches from his mouth, feeling his breath ghost over my skin. "Maybe I'll let you fuck me right here." Turning on my heel, I press my ass against him, feeling him harden in his slacks. His palms are set on the door, his head resting on my bare shoulder. With his breath on my neck, I slide the card into the slot.

 _Green light means go._

As soon as I push the door open, my instincts tell me to run. But as soon as I turn, I collide into the unyielding body behind me. He grabs me by the arms, ushering me farther into the shadows of the room. Mr. Fitzpatrick kicks the door shut.

 _Fuck. Fuck. Fuck._

The second he whips me around to face the room, I see a man and woman with their hands on their holsters, ready for me to make a move.

"NYPD. Put your hands up."


	2. Chapter 2

**_AN:_** _This story has been living in my mind for the longest time. I figured that I should probably make the effort to put it into writing and share it. I hope you enjoy what you read, and if you like it (or don't like it), please review._

* * *

 **Clipped Wings**

 **2**

* * *

 ** _Amanda_**

There are far better ways of spending a Wednesday evening than sitting in a police station and waiting for burnt, slimy coffee to cool. I could be making money, partying with my friends, or sitting at home watching the same five reruns of a procedural cop drama. My fingernail digs into the styrofoam cup, leaving crescent moon indentations and sending some invisible pollutant into the decaying atmosphere. On the wall, the clock ticks. I've been sitting here for a grand total of five minutes, but it already feels like five hours.

Granted, I'm well aware my chosen profession is against the law; but I also know the detectives who ambushed me didn't arrest me for that. In fact, after scaring me half to death, they tried to play nice with me by not arresting me at all. "Come with us to the station. We want to help you," said the brunette in the smoking cocktail dress. Too bad she ruined the look with that oversized police jacket. "Cooperate with us and we can get you out of this mess."

 _Mess?_ I wondered. I've been perfectly content with the chaos that's been my life since as far back as I could remember.

On cue, my heroic cops come strolling in. The brunette, Detective Benson, is dressed down to her work clothes, and Detective Stabler — the impostor — lost the jacket and rolled up the sleeves. He throws a folder on the table, and it slides across to stop within inches of my coffee cup. "We need your help."

"What happened to 'we want to help you'?"

The two detectives stand, towering over me, their hands braced on the table. Benson speaks, and I know immediately the female detective is the good cop to his bad cop. "That offer still stands as long as you assist us in taking down the trafficking ring you work for —"

"I don't work for anybody."

"Not according to these," Stabler says as he reaches over to open the folder, revealing paparazzi-style pictures of my meeting with Regina Gardner. It isn't exactly a well-kept secret that Regina runs an escort agency in the pretext of an exclusive matchmaking service. But sex trafficking? The cops are overreaching. "We also know she wired $15,000 to your account on September 26th."

"That was a signing bonus —"

"So you work for Regina."

"If you'd let me finish." I scowl at Stabler the impostor. "She wired me the money as an advance to get me to sign onto her agency. I told her I wasn't interested. She gave me a week to think about it, so I'm meeting her on Friday to reject her offer and return her 15 grand."

The detectives exchange a long look. Whatever I said had thrown a wrench into whatever cop routine they had planned when they stepped into the interview room.

Benson pulls a chair and sits down. Her warm brown eyes glint, and her head tilts ever so slightly. "Would you consider signing on anyway?"

I laugh. No, I cackle. "You're kidding? You just told me she runs a sex trafficking ring! What's next? You're going to ask me to jump out of that window?"

"You'd need more area to cover to get enough momentum to break the window —"

"El!" Benson shoots her partner a glare that would have despots cowering and crying for their mommies. He flashes her an apologetic smirk, which she accepts without argument. "I'm sorry. I know this isn't ideal, but we need someone on the inside to help guide us on the next phase of our investigation."

Stabler paces to the other side of the room, his arms folded across his broad chest. "You'll be a confidential informant. If you do this, we can offer you immunity. You'll be protected at all times so your safety won't be an issue."

"Once you take a client to a hotel room, our team will be ready to arrest the john. We have protocol set in place to ensure that our arrests don't disrupt the proceedings of the escort agency," Benson continues. "We're not after that aspect of her business. It's the trafficking of kidnapped girls that we're after."

"And if I don't do this?"

"I'm afraid we'll have to arrest you for prostitution, which is punishable by up to three months in jail. The misdemeanour will also stay in your record, and it will be accessible to your school and any other future employers."

"This is blackmail!"

With a wistful look, Benson sighs. "No, Amanda. This is a way out."

* * *

 ** _Elliot_**

"You play a very convincing cheater. Are you a method actor, by any chance?"

My teeth make an awful grinding noise that makes me flinch. Standing behind the mouthy blonde, I watch her sign the paperwork that officially makes her a pain-in-the-ass CI for the foreseeable future. Her signature is a loopy scrawl with a single dot over the _i_ in her last name.

"Stabler —" she starts, "or can I call you Elliot? I suppose I can now that we're co-workers."

"We're not co-workers."

Amanda drops the pen and looks up, her young face in an accentuated pout. "Here I thought we'd be working together."

"Just sign." I tap my finger on the dotted line.

The door opens and Liv steps into the room. She's holding those files she said she was going to get before she left me alone to deal with the escort. We had been in the interview room for over an hour, trying to convince Amanda to take the deal. Towards the end, I realized that she was always going to work with us; she just enjoyed playing us like we were puppets dancing for her amusement.

Amanda turns to Liv, who proceeds to take the seat across from her. "Can I call you Olivia?"

"Sure."

She glances up at him and quirks a brow. "See. That wasn't so hard."

My partner and I exchange looks, practically having a silent conversation while Amanda signs the papers. It's been a long day, and all I can think about is the ride home. It'll be a while before I can catch some sleep in my bedroom in Queens, but I know I'll find other ways to fill the time in between. She must be a mind-reader because Liv shakes her head and smiles that Mona Lisa kind of smile.

"Elliot, are you married?"

I walk casually to the head of the table, bending forward so I can get a better look at the cold sober expression on Amanda's face. "I don't see how that's any of your business."

She laughs playfully. "You don't have to tell me. I see the ring on your finger."

"Then why ask?"

"I'm just wondering if your wife knows about the intricacies of your job. I mean, you get to play pretend and go out on a date with another woman. I'm sure I'm not the first one," she says, eyes locking on mine. I turn to Liv, not really sure what I'm asking. A diversion? A life preserver? "You get to do all that — minus the sex, of course — without having to deal with any real consequences."

"Your point?"

"I'm just curious if she's ok with it, because if she is then she must have the patience of a saint."

Liv stares at Amanda like a deer caught in the headlights. Good thing Amanda's too preoccupied skimming the terms of her contract while engaging me in this anxiety-inducing discussion. I clear my throat and Liv snaps out of it, dropping my eyes to the words on the page.

Amanda dots the last _i_ and clicks the nib of the pen back into its barrel. With a perfunctory sigh, she pushes against the table, her chair rolling back a foot. She slouches, her fingers interlaced over the flat expanse of her stomach. "Of course, your wife probably won't have a clue how hard you were in your pants. Or was that pretend, too?"

 _Did she just?_

The next few seconds are a blur. My fist slams on the table, my body angling toward her as I yell in her face. "Shut your mouth! You have no right to talk about me or my wife, you glorified home wrecker!" The vitriol is out before I can keep it trapped under the hard clench of my jaw. I bite my tongue just to keep the rest of the venom from spilling. _Overpriced prostitute. Nasty slut._

Hands are on me, pushing me back against a hard surface. I blink a couple of times and see the horror streak across Amanda's face. She was egging me on; she shouldn't have been surprised by my reaction. But then the guilt washes over me, but my pride keeps me from saying how sorry I am. _Congratulations._ _She got under your skin._

The familiar scent of warm vanilla fill my senses. The grip of her hands on my biceps takes me back to solid ground, as I feel my vision slowly become less of a haze. "El, you need to leave."

"I —"

Liv steers me to the door. "Go."

* * *

 _ **Olivia**_

Walking away and not looking back are universal signs that I do not want to talk about it. Why does he keep calling my name then? Why is he following me to the bunks? If he doesn't catch the hint by the time I've reached the end of the hall, I'm going to erect a fucking roadblock in his path.

The door slams behind me, only to be opened by the last person I want to see. "Liv, can we please talk?"

"Not now."

Proving he can neither catch hints nor listen to my explicit request, he starts his half-assed apology. "Look, I'm sorry I lost it in there. But you heard her. She was provoking me. What was I supposed to do?"

"You were supposed to keep your mouth shut."

"I wanted her to stop. She crossed the line when she talked about my physical reaction to her — a reaction, you of all people, should know is completely biological and beyond my control."

Sinking down on one of the cots, I bury my face in my hands. I can't believe what I'm hearing. What am I supposed to do now? Give him two thumbs-up for understanding a concept that should have never been up for debate in the first place?

"I'm sorry my body reacted the way it did, but I'm telling you the truth when I say I'm not attracted to Amanda."

"I don't care about that."

Elliot crouched down in front of me, his hands on my knees. I want to push him away, but I have resolve, especially when he's trying so hard to figure out what's going through my head. Blue eyes searching for those slivers of truth, carefully peeling away until the picture would be revealed to him. "Please tell me why you're upset."

I place my hands on top of his and feel him squeeze my knee with affection. "You called her a home wrecker."

He rears his head back, a wrinkle forming between his brows. "Yeah, but isn't she, technically —"

I shove his hands away and rise from the cot, crossing the room to get far away from him as possible. The breaths leaving me becoming more and more shallow as the anger pricked at my skin. It must be nice to be the privileged party in an affair. Hell, it must be nice to be the man. No one ever blames the men for being duplicitous and self-indulgent. It's always the wife's fault for being a shrew and the mistress' fault for being a home wrecker.

"God, Liv." He heaves out a great exhale as he finally puts the pieces together. His long strides close the gap between us until I feel his arms encircle my waist. "It's not the same thing."

"The only difference is she gets paid."

"You're not —"

"— A home wrecker?" I challenge, my chin tilted in defiance. "I think having an affair with my married partner, who has four kids, falls under the definition. You can't possibly look me in the eye and tell me what we're doing isn't destroying your family."

He looks her in the eye, but doesn't say a word.

"I saw you back there, getting into that girl's face. You had more to say, didn't you? So, besides being a home wrecker, what else is she? What else am I?"

He shakes his head, refusing to take the bait.

"I can't do this with you right now. I need some time alone."

"Livvie, I made a rash judgment about someone who aggravated me. I'm at fault and I'm going to apologize." He swallows hard, his hold around my waist tightening just enough that my chest presses up against his. "But I want you to know that I don't see you — I've never seen you — as anything less than the woman I love."

"El…"

"Listen, I know our situation is fucked up. And it's unfair to Kathy and the kids… It's also unfair to you. I'm figuring it out. I swear."

Biting down on my lip, I lower my head to watch the almost imperceptible rise and fall of his chest. He smells of clean and crisp laundry with a faint layer of his natural musk. It's warm and comforting, pulling me in deeper so I can drown in his embrace. "I know."

Dipping his head, he kisses me softly on the lips. "I love you."

I smile sadly into the kiss, my answer poised to leap from the tip of my tongue, when the door flies open.

* * *

 ** _Nick_**

My only intention was to retrieve my gym bag from my locker, not to barge into a spectacle of the classic office romance. A trope so often exploited and exaggerated in literature and film that I never thought I'd have a front row experience to the live show.

My vision flickers and blurs from all the blinking. The wires in my brain short-circuiting from trying to process the magnitude of implications. Their lips don't have to be locked together for me to figure it out. There's nothing professional, or even platonic, about the way Elliot has Olivia wrapped in his arms, or the way she gazes at him with a look that would mystify even Pablo Neruda himself.

Like a statue, gawking at its museum-goers, I stand unmoved. Olivia had detached herself from Elliot's hold, the back of her hand on the mouth that had just been kissed. Elliot's head now hangs low, his fingers coiling behind his neck like he's about to snap his skull out of alignment. Her eyes connect with mine, and she doesn't have to say a word, but I know she's pulling the friend card.

In the four months since transferring to Special Victims, I had been relegated the menial tasks associated with being rookie detective, even though I had a year and a half's experience in Narcotics. _There's a whole 'nother world out there, Serpico, and not everybody's got the stomach for it._ Paying one's dues was not a foreign concept. And while the guys gave me the extra paperwork they didn't want to deal with and the back-and-forth trips to the DA's office to pick up warrants, it had been Olivia who actually treated me like a detective. It had been Olivia who talked to me, gotten to know me, and invited me out to First Thursdays — the squad tradition that confirmed I was part of the family. Captain Cragen took notice and paired us up, albeit temporarily, so she'd show me the ropes and get me acclimated to how things worked in the unit.

Now, I fully understand why Elliot was _still_ being an ass about the new arrangement.

I take a step backward and pull out the finger guns. "You know, maybe I should skip leg day." And with that not-so smooth transition, I make my exit back to the hall.

I'm still reeling from the shock of finding my colleagues in a compromising position and the shame of pulling out the finger guns, when I receive a slap in the back from Fin. "Yo, man, I got an early day tomorrow, and Cragen needs someone to brief the escort on what's gonna happen the next couple'a days."

"So you're pawning off the job to me."

"You're a team player, Amaro," Fin says, already walking away, his arm outstretched and pointing at me. "Off the court, anyway. On the court, you gotta pass that ball around."

"Hey! Ain't my fault if I'm the only one going hard on the paint."

Fin chuckles, turning the corner and heading for the elevator. On my desk are the files Fin knew I would take (because the newbie always tried too hard, until there's a new newbie to replace him). I had already read through the files, like the keen stereotype that I am; I knew the details of the investigation backwards and forwards. But, now, seeing the folders, my heart begins to race. Talking to people was never an issue; but talking to _her_ …. I had hoped I would get by the rest of the night without having to meet with her face-to-face.

With the files tucked under my arm and two fresh cups of coffee from the new machine down the hall, I enter the room to see her mildly surprised expression.

"Should've known the barkeep was in on it, too."

"Coffee?"

She crinkles her nose, and my heart rate becomes the subject of an emergency medical drama.

"It's from a different machine. It's no Starbucks, but it does the trick."

"I'll take your word for it, but only because you know how to pour me a drink." The glimmer in her eye and the upward curl of her lips have my heart in a vise, and she twists and tightens her grip when she moans after her first sip. "You have not disappointed me yet, barkeep."

"It's Nick — I mean, it's Detective Amaro. But, whatever. You can call me Nick. I don't really care." As I sit on the other side of the table, I wipe my sweaty palms on my pants. I'm not normally this flustered. Not that I have much game, but I'm a fairly confident guy able to adapt to a variety of social situations. The ratio of women who like me are skewed more toward the _abuelitas_ than women my age. Still, it's not like I've had a terribly difficult time finding someone to help keep my bed warm on those lonely nights. I don't know what it is. But there's just something about this particular woman that has me feeling like I'm clueless, brace-faced, and thirteen all over again. "Ms. Rollins —"

"Amanda." She smiles over the rim of the cup. The steam rises to cloud the glint of mischief in her eyes. Setting the cup down, she rests her elbow on the table and cups her cheek. "But, whatever," she says with a shrug. "You can call me _whatever_ you like."


	3. Chapter 3

**AN:** Thank you for the reviews and the views (I see you). I know it took a long while between chapters 1 and 2, but I hope to churn out more frequent updates provided I sustain some interest. Please let me know what you think, which character is your fav, and how you think all their stories will intersect.

* * *

 **Clipped Wings**

 **3**

* * *

 ** _Elliot_**

No matter how hard one tries to keep the screen door from slamming, it finds a way to make enough noise to stir even the deepest of sleepers. I encounter that problem tonight as I sneak back into my house like a teenager out past curfew. Only I'm 37 years-old, a career detective, married with kids, and — some would say — an affair that screams midlife crisis.

Shrugging my jacket off my shoulders, I take quick note of the changes in the kitchen. The table is cleared of dinner but the twins' science projects have taken over. I can tell that Lizzie's put in a lot of work into her volcano, but I can't quite say the same thing about my son's mould bread experiment. I'm suddenly reminded of an argument I had with my wife over the weekend. I hate to say that Kathy was nagging, but I can't really think of a better word to describe it. She would not stop telling me to make sure that Dickie's science project would be presentable to his fourth grade class. I countered the argument by saying Dickie would never learn to be accountable if he never had to work on his own and he always expected his parents or his sisters to cover for him. Of course, Kathy took that as me "not being involved" and "too busy to spend time with family."

The store-bought orange juice sates the midnight hunger just enough for me to hold out for breakfast. It's the same brand Olivia buys, but this one's got pulp. I've never really had an opinion either way. Orange juice is orange juice. But Kathy makes a strong argument for fibrous pulp keeping all Stabler bowels regular.

Kathy makes a strong argument for a lot of things lately.

Before heading into the master bedroom, I make a pitstop to the kids' rooms, taking a peek to make sure they're all safely tucked in bed. To give credit where credit's due, Kathy is an excellent mother. She got pregnant with Maureen when we were just kids ourselves. While I worked my ass off to provide for our (exponentially) growing family, it was my wife who really did the grunt work of raising the kids and running this household. I've always admired her for that, and I suppose a part of me has always been jealous that she takes most of the credit for our brood.

My job doesn't lend itself to being available for all the big and little moments of a child's life. I've tried my best short of quitting the force altogether. But, yeah, I've missed my share of spelling bees and recitals. I couldn't make it to the meeting when the school counsellor told my wife she suspected our son had ADHD. I wasn't around the night Maureen bawled her eyes out after that jerk Tony Vincenzo broke her heart.

I tell Kathy I appreciate everything she does for the kids, and she responds by telling me that my appreciation only goes so far. I could be more of a parent around this house. And if I had some time to spare, maybe I could be a better husband.

She's right. But it's really difficult to do the right thing when the right thing doesn't feel right at all.

I creep into a dark bedroom. Through muscle memory, I walk blindly toward the chair by the dresser, kicking my shoes off as I go. The buttons of my shirt are next to go, followed by the leather belt around my hips. I'm pulling the white t-shirt over my head when I hear the click of the bedside lamp, and the room is bathed in an orange glow.

Kathy rubs the sleep from her eyes and she stifles a yawn. "Mhmm… What time is it?"

I've lost track of time hours ago. When we both glance at the clock and see that it's half past one, she pushes off the bed to lean against the headboard.

"Where have you been?"

"Work." I answer tersely. "You can call the precinct. They'll tell you I was there up until I left about half an hour ago." The response comes off defensive, which isn't my intention. Normally, I'd have a reason to be defensive and come up with an excuse regarding my whereabouts, but tonight the work excuse without any additional information should be enough. For one thing, it's actually true this time.

"You said you'd be home to help with Dickie's project."

"I never said that," I reply, pulling off my pants and chucking them in the wicker laundry basket. "I told you that he's not going to learn to be responsible for his own actions until we stop helping him with every little thing."

"It's not a little thing. It's twenty-percent of his final mark."

"Why didn't you help him out then?"

Kathy stares at me in disbelief. "Are you serious? I wanted to work on the project with him last weekend when we had some time, but no, you convinced me to let him do it on his own. Today, when it's too late and I'm neck deep in unfinished errands, you expect me to complete his homework for him?"

"That's not what I said."

"What's keeping you at work this late anyway?" Kathy challenges. She crosses her arm over her chest and watches me with narrowed eyes. "I thought your captain hired a new detective because your squad was spread too thin. I remember you saying this guy was hired to take on some of your workload."

I'm not the biggest fan of the new kid, but I'd be lying to myself if I didn't say Amaro is efficient. To be completely honest, if he hadn't joined the squad, it would've been a lot harder to maintain my affair with Olivia. But neither my wife nor Amaro need to know how his recent transfer has benefitted me. "He's new. He needs a lot of on-the-job training and I'm the lucky guy who gets to show him the ropes."

Kathy rolls her eyes and slips farther under the covers of the bed. She rolls on her side and tucks an arm under the pillow.

I walk over to her side of the bed and crouch down so I can swipe her hair from her eyes. She looks as exhausted as I feel. But underneath the dark circles and the faint lines across her forehead, I see the same lightness in her eyes the day I married her. She gives me a weak smile, and I smile back before turning off the light.

* * *

 ** _Amanda_**

"Angel." The voice on the other end of the line is deep and full of hunger. "When you get this message, please meet me at our room at the Ritz…. I need you tonight. Bad."

I let the message play before deleting it from my inbox. Tossing my phone aside, I focus on a spot of water damage on my ceiling. The guy's name is George and he's a big-time producer for a national TV network. His IMDB page lists mile-long credits of all his projects, which all centre around the same theme: wholesome family dramas. Regardless of what happens in the middle of an episode, the series always ends with a shot of the resilient family sticking together like glue.

It's no wonder a guy like George thinks he can sustain his habit even in the face of his wife's threat of divorce. She knows. She doesn't know who I am or that her husband pays for sex, but she knows that he's a serial cheater. As far as she's concerned, I don't even exist. Not when she's heard the rumours about her husband's long-established ways of treating female production assistants and the like.

On some occasions, I was still in his hotel room when he called for one of the PAs to send over the scripts. The girls looked to be my age. Early twenties with their whole careers ahead of them, and the older generations' voices drilling into them that this was par for the course in the industry.

My phone buzzes again and I see George's name flash on the screen. He's called five times now and I can no longer deal with the desperation. As much as I don't want to be pinned underneath some 55 year-old's body right now, I can't afford to lose this man as my client.

"Thank fuck!" George exclaims. "Where the hell are you and why aren't you picking up?"

I speak in a hushed tone, my voice breathless and raspy. It's the sound I imagine coming from a lifelong smoker who spends her last days playing slots in Vegas. "I'm a little busy here, baby. I've already got another client availing of my services for the evening. Although, I do wish it was you tied up to the bed right now."

"Fuck." He grunts. I hear shuffling from his end of the line. "How much time you got before he starts looking for you?"

I look at the empty expanse of my apartment. "Two minutes."

"It's all I need." I hear the ruffle of fabric and the soft squeak of a mattress. George unzips his trousers and groans huskily into the receiver. "Get me off, Angel."

I pick up the nail polish on my nightstand. Sandwiching the phone between my ear and my knee, I inspect the state of my pedicure. "Are you naked yet, baby?" I ask as I paint the first layer of the polish on my big toe. He groans what sounds like a 'yes' before I continue. "Whatever you do, don't touch your cock. I want you to take two fingers into your mouth. Swirl your tongue around your fingers; now imagine it's my mouth tasting you. Imagine my soft pink lips wrapped around your big, fat dick. Suck it, baby. Suck it deep."

All I hear for the next few seconds are muffled moans and slurping noises. After painting the first layer, I wiggle my toes in hopes that the polish will dry a little faster. "Now take those wet fingers and run them over your nipples. Are they hard?"

"Uh…. So hard. I'm so hard."

"Oooh, baby, mine are like diamonds."

"I'm picturing your tits right now."

"God, they're so tender. I need you to squeeze them. Tweak my nipples." I yawn as I wipe the brush along the edge of the bottle. "Twist them between your fingers until your crying, begging for release."

I put the phone down when he starts begging me for permission to jerk off. My lips curl into a small smile as I'm reminded that the man I'm directing is a powerful executive producer who laughs at allegations of sexual harassment and mocks his wife's attempt to file for divorce. He's so steeped in his own sense of power that he thinks he's above reproach. And yet, he's here with me, a quivering mess pleading to use his own hands on his own penis.

"Close your eyes and wrap your hand around your cock. Think of my pussy. So tight. So wet. Squeezing you. Yes, baby…. Oooh." I moan just like Meg Ryan did in that classic scene in When Harry Met Sally. Only I'm thinking of my Vegas alter ego getting off at the thought of hitting jackpot.

George goes silent before he grunts his release. He pants hard into the receiver, as I lay the brush down over my pinky toe. The oxblood colour makes it look like I've banged it against the door, but it's a bit too late for me to change it now. "Your two minutes are up."

George purrs. "That schmuck tied up in your bed better realize how lucky he is to have you all night."

I lie back in bed and search for the spot of water damage on my ceiling. My mind pictures a face — a face I had just seen — and I feel my self returning to its place in my body. I sigh and close my eyes.

* * *

 ** _Nick_**

 _Whiskey slides clean down my throat, my stare never straying from a piercing pair of blue eyes. Her fingers graze mine as she retrieves her glass. Sparks fly and electricity courses from my fingertips to the rest of my body. She pours another drink and downs it without so much as a wince. I swallow hard as she trails a finger up the line of buttons on my shirt. When she reaches my collar, she tugs me forward so I'm leaning across the bar. Our faces are inches apart and I can almost taste the whiskey on her lips._

 _"Still haven't fucked anyone on top of this bar?"_

 _My gaze drifts down from her eyes to her parted mouth. I manage to breathe out an answer. "No."_

 _"Let's do something about that, shall we?"_

 _She closes the gap and I can almost feel her lips against mine, when I fall forward. My body descends into a hole that appears out of thin air. As I make my descent, I look up to see her blowing a kiss._

"Did I wake you from a wet dream?"

I jerk awake and take in my surroundings. I'm no longer at the bar of the Viceroy Hotel. Instead, I'm at my desk in the 16th precinct. Everything looks the same as it did before I allowed myself five minutes to rest my eyes. Those five minutes must've flown by because now I see the sunrise beating through the caged windows.

Wiping the trace of drool from the corner of my mouth, I look up to see Detective Munch grinning like the cheshire cat. "Just resting my eyes," I explain as I smooth yesterday's tie over my wrinkled shirt.

"You don't look well-rested to me."

I groan as it finally catches up to me and I realize that sleeping at my desk only puts me in rougher shape. "I'm going to take a quick shower downstairs. If Captain comes in and asks —"

"Don't worry about it, kid. No one's coming in for another hour."

"Thanks, Munch." I push myself off the desk and begin to make my way to my locker when I feel his hand on my shoulder.

"Everyone here knows you're a hard worker. You wouldn't have been welcomed into the squad if we didn't think you were up for the job."

I glance over at Stabler's unoccupied desk. "You sure about that?"

"Elliot will come around." Munch leans against the edge of the table and crosses his arms over his chest. "He's like an old dog jealous that his owner came home with a new puppy."

I raise a questioning brow at Munch. "I take it Liv owns us both."

"She does," he says with an impish smile. "She's also been trying really hard to keep the peace between you two. Haven't you noticed?"

I nod. I've noticed Liv making an effort to include me in the squad when Elliot has made a concerted effort to ignore me. I remember Liv stepping in in the middle of heated discussions. I think back to last night, when Liv asked to speak with me privately. She took me to the stairwell, checked and re-checked that we were alone, and begged me not to tell a soul about what I saw in the bunks earlier that evening. When I asked her why it was just her talking to me, she admitted that Elliot had said he didn't think he needed to explain himself to me. That pissed me off. I wasn't seeking an explanation. Their affair is their mess to deal with. But I still don't like the fact that he sent in Liv alone to clean the mess for the two of them.

I bite my tongue and try to think back to the start of the summer, when I had read about his impressive case record and I was actually eager to make a good impression. "I have no problem with Stabler."

"Let me guess," Munch starts. "It's Stabler who's got the problem with you."

"It's not like I set out to steal his partner." I scoff. "Talk about co-dependency."

"Don't let them hear you say that." Munch scratches his temple and sighs. "Even though it does seem that way…. He doesn't like change. Hardly anyone on this squad likes it, but maybe that's exactly why we need someone new."

"Someone who takes twice the time to complete this goddamn paperwork." I motion to the pile of DD-5s on my desk. It's no secret that desk duty is my least favourite thing about the job; not to mention having to re-learn how to fill out paperwork in the same format and standards as SVU. Let's just say things were run like the Wild West over at Narcotics.

"Puppies don't learn the tricks of the trade overnight. But if you ever feel like you're drowning under all this paperwork, don't be afraid to ask me for help. That's what us old guys are here for. You worry about keeping those knees healthy so you can chase after the bad guys quick enough that you won't need me for back-up."

I laugh. "Sounds like a plan."

* * *

 ** _Olivia_**

I peer through the peephole to see Elliot, holding a tray of coffee and a box of half a dozen donuts. He's early. I still have my hair wrapped in a towel from this morning's shower and I'm only halfway dressed in a camisole and my black trousers.

"I brought five donuts and your Triple Americano." He says brightly when I open the door.

"Five?"

"I gave Fred a Boston Cream." He answers, referring to my charming yet dangerously perceptive doorman. Fred is perhaps the only person in the world who has an idea that I'm sleeping with my married co-worker (well, apart from Nick). He's witnessed Elliot come in and out of the apartment at odd times. He's even caught me kissing him curbside with the driver's side window pulled down. We know Fred knows, but we also know he's the keeper of many secrets in this building, and he has yet to tattle on any of its tenants.

Elliot hands me my coffee before taking a sip of his own — regular drip coffee with a packet of sugar and a splash of milk.

"I knew the donuts were a good call." He scans my countertops for any sign of breakfast, but I don't even have a cereal box to offer.

"Thank you." I smile with exaggerated sweetness, before heading back into my bathroom to finish drying my hair.

I can barely hear him through the noise of my blowdryer, but I hear the sound of the TV switch on to the morning news. I don't have to see it to know Elliot's made himself at home on my couch. He hates the news, but it's the only thing besides sports that he ever watches. In both instances, I often find him disgruntled and pouty with whatever's happening behind the screen. The lines on his forehead out in full force. I love to trace those lines with my finger and remind him that his forties are right around the corner. He pouts some more, and he doesn't know it but he's feeding the part of my soul that loves this man.

"Leave it like that." He's leaning against the doorframe, his arms crossed over his broad chest. That sexy smirk on full display as he eyes my reflection.

I gesture to my hair in its wavy, voluminous state. Normally I brush it out until it's smooth and straight. If all goes well, I can let my hair down; but I'm often in such a rush that I end up tying it in a ponytail.

"You look nice."

I roll my eyes.

He takes a step toward me and rests his hands on the sink, caging me in. His chin drops to my shoulder as we both stare back at our reflection. "I'm serious. You look real good with your hair _au naturale_." His lips brush over my skin, stopping to kiss, open-mouthed and hot, on my neck. "It reminds me of what you look like after you've been thoroughly fucked."

My knees turn to jelly and I brace myself on the sink, my hands gripping his large ones. I watch him carefully through the mirror; his eyes take on a deeper hue like inky pools of indigo. "Don't start anything you can't finish."

"Who says I can't work fast?"

"Come on, El." I try to shove him off me, but only succeed in pressing my ass against his erection. "We're going to be late again."

"We'll have the donuts in the car."

I glare at him. As much as I want what he wants right now, I know I need to bring up what happened last night at the precinct. After Nick walked in on us kissing, Elliot and I didn't have the chance to talk about what this meant for us. Sure, we talked about doing damage control. Or at least I suggested we both do damage control, and he countered by suggesting that Nick would only do me the favour and that having him there to plead our case wouldn't help. Of course, I called him out on it. I knew his pride didn't want to have to face Nick after being caught in the wrong.

"Something on your mind?" He turns me around so I can face him, his hands running up my arms in a soothing motion.

"I talked to Nick last night after you left work."

"And?"

"He said he won't say a word of it to anyone."

"Good."

I narrow my eyes at him. "Good? That's all you have to say?"

He backs off and furrows his brows. "What do you want me to say? Don't tell me you want me to send a 'thank you' card."

"It's a start," I reply as Elliot stares incredulously. "You realize we're putting him in a tough spot by having him lie for us. Maybe you could start going easy on him."

"You've got to be kidding me." He storms out of the bathroom. I follow the trail of muttered curses to find him pacing by my bedroom window. "I don't owe Amaro anything just because he happened to walk in on us."

"You don't." I agree with him. "But don't you think he'd be more cooperative with keeping this under wraps if you actually treated him like a respected colleague?"

Elliot wraps a hand behind his neck and releases an exasperated sigh. "I haven't been too hard on him, have I?"

I frown. His face scrunches up as he realizes how much of a prick he's been all summer. "Did you know he was so eager to work with you after looking at your case record? He really wanted to make a good impression on the first day, but then you told him point-blank that he wouldn't last two weeks on the unit. You were a real dick that day."

"I remember." He scowls, and I'm sure he's reminded of me giving him the cold shoulder and happily agreeing to be partnered up with Nick. He's still convinced that Cragen would've paired him up with Fin had I not volunteered. Elliot huffs like a child, his hands placed firmly on his hips. "You didn't have to tell him he cleaned up nice after he shaved the beard."

A hint of a smile appears at the corner of his eyes. I move slowly toward him, my fingers poised to poke at his sides. He steers away from me, but not before I capture him in my embrace. "Jealous, are we?"

"No way!"

I press my palm over his smooth cheek. "I wonder what you'd look like with a beard."

"You wonder what it'd feel like if I had a beard."

It takes me a moment, but I notice his gaze flicking low to his favourite spot between my legs. I push against his shoulder as I laugh. "You're insatiable!"

Needless to say, we're having breakfast in the car this morning.


	4. Chapter 4

**_AN:_** _Hey lovelies! I'm back with another update. Thanks for the reviews on chapter three. Unfortunately, Kathy can't be out of the picture just like that. We need more pain and angst before that happens (if it happens). Please let me know what you think of this chapter by leaving a review. The Elliot section of this chapter is actually one of my favourite things that I've written in a while, because it really made me hurt for him and for the potential of EO. So let me know if you got the feels, too... If you're starting to feel Nick and Amanda... or if you feel like booking yourself a massage after reading this chapter._

* * *

 **Clipped Wings**

 **4**

* * *

 ** _Elliot_**

 _I creep into a dark bedroom. Through muscle memory, I walk blindly toward the chair by the dresser, kicking my shoes off as I go. The buttons of my shirt are next to go, followed by the leather belt around my hips. I'm pulling the white t-shirt over my head when I hear the click of the bedside lamp, and the room is bathed in an orange glow._

"It's late."

The clock hands are at twelve and my body cries for sleep. She shifts from underneath the covers to reveal a t-shirt older than our first child. It's a heather grey tee with a faded Sisters of Mercy crest in the front. Half of our gym uniform; the other half a pair of shorts I'd rather not pull from the recesses of my memory. Kathy took the shirt the year we graduated. She said it reminded her of the time I took a ball in the face to spare her from getting hit at a game of dodgeball. At seventeen, I thought I was hot shit when I told her I'd take a bullet for her if I had to.

"I called. Why didn't you answer?"

I'd still take a bullet for her. She's the mother of my four beautiful children. She's the woman I married when I was old enough to enlist in the marines but too young to walk into a bar and order a beer. I was scared shitless. Not of war or the inevitable separation from the only life I knew in Queens. I was scared shitless of the life growing inside her and how that little life would change the course of mine forever.

"You hardly spend any time with the kids."

My religion taught me that I was to devote my life to my wife and the mother of my children. When I stood at that altar and proclaimed my vows, I meant it. For better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, until death do us part. It was a promise I dedicated my life to keeping, because that was the only love I knew. And I mistakenly believed that love was inimitable.

"I don't even feel like I have my husband anymore."

We were young. We were made to believe that sex between two people could only occur within the confines of marriage. We were also two teenagers, ardent and inquisitive. Foolishly in love with the notion that our soulmates lived less than a block away and shared first period gym on Wednesdays. She was my world, but the world had other plans for us. It pushed us aside to bring a baby, deployment, another baby, a car payment, another two babies, and a mortgage to the foreground. Somewhere in the chaos, I still had that love for my girl, but it lost the ardency and became aloof.

"I've never felt more alone in my life."

I didn't know what I was missing until I met her. I wasn't making eyes at the pretty girl and sneaking notes into her locker. The whole process of falling in love didn't take a week like it did the first time. This one took it's time. At the beginning, it was a slow burn — a small flame that kissed the dry earth. Then it spread like wildfire before I knew what to do with it. I suffocated in its magnitude. I ignited in its clarity. The love I have for her is so beyond compare that I must keep it ablaze.

"Elliot, I'm tired. I don't want to fight anymore but I don't want you in this bed. I need you to leave."

Her light guides me across the Queensboro bridge, across the park, and into a fenced lot with a parking attendant in need of a favour from a cop. As I turn the corner to her street, I'm trying not to think about the fight. Hushed tones clawing at the flesh on my throat, begging me to release my pain in a scream.

I know it's my fault. I made a promise I thought I could keep. A promise I had no reason to believe I couldn't keep. And I failed. I know I'll hurt my children. I know I'll break whatever's left of my wife's broken heart. I know there's no such thing as a happy ending even if I end up with the woman I love.

There will be too much collateral damage.

Liv's standing at the threshold between the hallway and her apartment. There's no spoken word until I sink into her arms and she whispers soothing words into my ear. She strokes the hair on the back of my head, and urges me inside. The bed is warm, and I'm certain she was asleep before I made my presence known in her space. She cradles my face in her hands and presses her forehead against mine.

I whisper within a hair's breadth of her lips. "I need you."

* * *

 ** _Amanda_**

The task at hand seems simple. Charm my client over wine and appetizers and lure him back to the hotel room before the main course is cooked through. It's a regular day's work for me. If I hadn't been made aware of SVU's plan to detain this man and offer a deal in exchange for his cooperation, I wouldn't have even noticed the undercover cops stationed around the restaurant.

Benson is seated at a table diagonal to ours. She's in a little black dress that shows off her ample curves and long legs, looking every bit the part of a classy Upper East Side socialite. My date has his back turned so he can't see her silent direction to move this along to the next phase of the plan.

We join Stabler in the elevator, and I have to bite down on my lip to stifle a laugh. He's dressed in a classic elevator operator's uniform with the round hat and the double-breasted jacket. I have to say, purple is a good colour on him.

"Good evening, sir. What floor?"

"Twenty-three." My date wraps an arm around my waist, pulling me by his side. I lean into him as he nuzzles into my neck. "You smell delicious. I bet you taste —" He licks the shell of my ear and tugs the lobe between his teeth. "—God, I bet you taste divine."

Stabler watches us from the corner of his eye, but he remains without expression. His hands are positioned in front of his body. The knuckles turn a shade lighter as his muscles tense underneath the jacket.

It was just a little over a week ago when Stabler and I were in a similar position. I was under the impression that he wanted to pay me for sex, so I did exactly what the job required up until he revealed himself to be an undercover detective.

Our target makes a move to slip his hand over the curve of my ass. I quell the yelp of surprise but Stabler catches it. His head turns a fraction of an inch and he seeks my eyes for reassurance that I'm all right given the circumstances.

"She's a pretty one, isn't she?" The man grips my bottom, squeezing my flesh before delivering a swift slap that burns even through the knit fabric of my dress.

Stabler's mouth curls into an almost imperceptible smile, but he keeps his stare focused on the opposite wall. His knuckles are paper white now.

The elevator reaches our floor and I don't know who between the two men is more relieved.

My date takes his time, ushering me into the spacious hotel room. There's a narrow hallway with a closet and ensuite before I even get to see the king bed and the floor-to-ceiling windows. I've gotten so used to these views that they rarely take my breath away. But tonight, The Empire State Building's tower is glowing red, and I'm a little awestruck.

"Vodka or gin martinis?"

I turn on my heel to see him standing by the bar cart. He's shrugged off his jacket to reveal striped suspenders that contrast rather nicely against his pale pink shirt. "Gin."

I'm looking down on the light streaks on the streets down below when I feel his warmth press on my back. His arm reaches around to hand me the martini sans olive.

"Thank you."

"There's something I must get off my chest," he says before he takes a sip of his own drink. "When Regina told me she was setting me up with a new girl, I was reluctant. See, I have… eccentricities, if you will. Only a few of her girls can offer what I'm looking for, and tonight I needed someone I've already tested out, if you will. But then she assured me that someone new would actually be perfect for what I have in mind."

"Which is?"

He trails his hand up my arm and rests his hand loosely around my throat. He straightens out my neck, and I feel myself shift backwards. His arousal crowds the front of his pants, pushing into my hip. I close my eyes and revel in the lust for a second, before I remember our room is bugged.

The man I'm with is on the younger side of my client list. He's in his mid-thirties with a full head of sandy blond hair. He's an overworked software developer with hordes of women wishing they could snatch him off the market so they could become the next Mrs. Zuckerberg. But he's too focused on building his empire right now to care about long-term relationships, so instead he pays for sex. No strings. No mess. And if he gets an emergency conference call in the middle of fucking an escort, he doesn't have to feel an ounce of guilt.

I guess what I'm trying to say is that I'm attracted to the man paying me for sex. He's handsome in a geeky, The Talented Mr. Ripley sort of way. It's rare that I would consider sleeping with at least 90 percent of the men I've slept with had I met them within normal circumstances. But Justin Palmer is good-looking and successful; and I'd be lying if I said I didn't imagine what life would be like if I ended up with someone like him and never had to worry about money ever again.

If the NYPD wasn't watching what was happening in the next room over, I would have probably been naked and waiting for him to have his way with me. But there was something unsettling about having them watch. Maybe it's the shame from this profession finally catching up to me. Maybe it's the fact that over the last week of briefings at the 16th precinct, I've gotten to know the Special Victims Unit a little bit better. A small part of me actually cares what they think.

"Agh!"

His hand tightens around my throat and he snaps my head back so I'm staring up at the ceiling. I gasp for air but he doesn't give way. "Regina was right about you. So innocent, so oblivious."

I'm pushed against the window, my cheek hitting the cold glass. I try to brace the impact with my hands, but he quickly gathers my wrists and throws them behind me. He pushes hard against me, caging me in with his unyielding body.

"It's always better when she least expects it." His belt hits the floor. My body is wrenched in fear and regret. All of that initial attraction shrivelling away like the resolve to resist his advances. His fingers slip between my legs. I seal my eyes tight and I groan in displeasure as he shoves my panties to the side, and feels my body's miscalculated reaction. "Fuck, baby, you're so wet."

* * *

 ** _Nick_**

"NYPD!" We storm into the room with our guns aimed at Palmer's centre of gravity. He turns and the expression on his face is coloured in shock. He retrieves his hands from her body — one on her neck, the other below the hem of her dress — and he starts to raise them. "Hands above your head. Step away from her."

I rush in first. "Get on the ground." He doesn't resist and starts getting on his knees, but I speed up the process by jostling him down by his shoulders. "Don't make any sudden movements."

"Amaro."

My partner calling me by my name is a warning, but I don't care. I have one thing on my mind and that's making sure that no one is harmed any further than they should've been.

It was only minutes ago when we watched the feed from the other side of those walls. I was restless, barely trying to keep it together as we were forced to watch this asshole put his hands on her. The plan was to apprehend him as soon as he mentioned paying her for sex, but that conversation never came up.

When he mentioned Regina for the first time, I was ready to bust into the room, but captain ordered us to hold off. The DA was with him, watching the feed from a van parked outside. We were told not to move until we had a little more than solicitation of prostitution to arrest him. "Something to put the fear of god in him," said the DA.

Waiting was a mistake. I heard our captain arguing with the DA over the audio feed. Meanwhile, Palmer had her shoved against the window with his hand wrung around her neck. Captain made the call to bypass the DA's orders, and I was the first out, in position to kick down the door. I even missed the shot of him putting his hands under her dress. Had I seen it, I don't think I would've trusted myself to follow protocol.

"Amaro."

I turn to see Amanda standing by the window. Her hand encloses her throat where she was once in his clutches. She's a bit shaken and her eyes are glazed over, like she doesn't know if she, herself, can make any sudden movements.

"You okay?" I ask. She blinks a few times and looks to me. Something registers and she nods but doesn't say a word.

The next thing I know, Liv is by her side and she's shooting daggers with her eyes. She guides Amanda to the adjacent bathroom, so now it's just the guys. I hear the click of handcuffs securing Palmer's wrists, and I turn to see Stabler pulling the scumbag up to his feet.

"Good work, kid." Stabler tells me. The compliment sounds odd coming from him, and I think we both acknowledge the unfamiliarity of it in the moment. His nose crinkles and he shakes his head, before leading Palmer out to the hall.

I look back to the window and see the print of Amanda's cheek and two hands on the otherwise pristine glass. From the bathroom, I hear Benson's soothing voice; and I hope it eases her mind just as much as it does mine. No one can settle down a victim right after a trauma like Benson can. She manages to do it in a way that doesn't re-traumatize them but also in a way that admits the truth of their experience.

"I'm fine."

"Take as much time as you need."

"I don't need time." Amanda contends. "I want to go. Can I go?"

"No, unfortunately, we need you to come back to the station. We need your statement — an account of what just happened."

"You saw what happened! You have cameras in every fucking corner of this room." She cries in exasperation. "Can't I just do this in the morning?"

"Amanda —" She stops when she sees me pass the bathroom. I catch a quick glimpse of where they're positioned. Liv is leaning against the sink while Amanda is sitting on the edge of a whirlpool tub. "Nick, you mind?"

"Y-yeah, sorry."

"No, stay."

"Excuse me?" Liv turns to look at Amanda.

Under the bright lights, she looks like a different person than the woman on screen. Whoever that was seemed like a dangerous and deceitful character from a noir film. The woman peeking at me from beneath dark lashes looks like she could use a warm blanket and a night away from all this mess.

"I'll give him my statement."

Liv sighs and stands straighter. "That's fine. Whatever makes you feel most comfortable, Amanda." She pats my arm before she leaves to join the others out in the hall.

"Benson is the best person to talk to —"

"— Are you saying you can't do your job?"

"That's not what I meant."

She rises from the edge of the tub and walks toward me so we're standing face to face. I raise a brow, waiting for the statement she said she would deliver. Instead, she wraps her hand around her hair and sweeps it off to one side. I bite down the anger that swells in my gut as I discover the pink handprint around her neck.

"Do you want me to get EMS to check that out?"

She runs a finger down her neck and shakes her head. "He knew what he was doing. He hurt me just enough not to leave any lasting damage. Not every guy is as considerate."

"He shouldn't have put his hands on you in the first place."

She laughs softly, the humour never quite reaching her eyes. "You forget that you and your buddies sent me to do this job."

"We should've stepped in earlier," I admit, knowing full well that I could get in trouble for telling her.

"It's not anything I haven't been through before," she says with nonchalance. "He was actually such a gentleman up until the whole rape fantasy thing. I don't think I have much limits when it comes to sex, but I draw the line there."

"Why?" I blurt out, and I instantly regret how it sounds. "I mean, I get why. But why make it a non-negotiable when you say you're willing to do most other things?"

"What other things?" She smirks playfully.

"Amanda, I'm asking you a serious question."

"Oh, come on, Detective Amaro. Could you try taking the stick out of your ass just once?"

"If I do, would you answer the question?"

"No."

"Is it because it hits close to home?"

She recoils. Her expression turns cold and she crosses her arm over her chest. "You wanted a statement, right? Should I start when Palmer introduced himself or should I just cut to the chase and tell you how he penetrated me with his fingers?"

* * *

 ** _Olivia_**

I lie face down on my bed, which smells like Elliot. He's been spending the last couple of nights here ever since he and his wife got into a fight. He comes home to have dinner with the kids, but when the little ones are asleep in bed, he hightails it out of Queens. He tells Kathy that he's working overtime, and she doesn't bother to challenge the lie. Her resignation should make me feel better about where I stand with her husband; but it doesn't.

It only makes me feel worse.

"Try to relax," he tells me, sinking into the cooler side of the bed. He kneads into my shoulders and I groan instinctively. "It's been a hell of a night."

Elliot is putting it mildly. In the last four nights, SVU has apprehended three men for solicitation, all thanks to our new confidential informant, Amanda Rollins. The District Attorney's office already has the plea deals printed and ready to be signed by all the men accosted — cooperate with the DA to take down the bigger target, and no one has to go to trial. The whole process has been kept under wraps in an effort to preserve the investigation and maintain our CI's safety.

Since joining Regina Gardner's roster of escorts, requests to meet with the "sweet, Southern peach" have been raking in steadily. The first night was a lesson for all of us. The DA was so adamant at having enough incriminating evidence to scare the john into cooperation that we risked Amanda's safety. It was a close call, even though her official statement seemed to downplay the night's events as something she "totally had in control". Regardless, we didn't want any repeats of that night so we've been more careful moving forward.

The second arrest went smoothly, and we erroneously believed it would set a trend. The team even went out for drinks after for a low-key celebration. It was presumptuous of us to do so, because tonight's arrest nearly cost us the case. It goes without saying, the DA was less than pleased with our work tonight.

"You're still thinking about what happened." His fingertips apply a steady, moderate pressure between the base of my neck and my shoulders. I force myself to relax and burrow into the pillow that now shares the scent of his aftershave. "I can still feel the tension."

"Work it in a little harder."

The bed dips on either side of me as he straddles my ass. I groan; he groans. He continues to apply pressure to points I didn't even know we're coiled in tight knots. I'm just starting to drift away into a state of utter tranquility when I feel the hardness pressing into my backside. The firm weight of it, punctuated by the deliberate grind of his hips.

"El."

I feel his hands dip below the hem of my shirt, lifting it up to my shoulder blades. He alternates between kneading my muscles and using his fingers to delicately trace circles on my back. He unsnaps my bra and runs his hands over my newly exposed skin. The cool air is replaced by his warm chest, and then I feel it — a delicate kiss below my ear.

My head begins to turn, my body twisting slightly underneath him. "Stop… There's no rush." He says as he presses into me, holding me in place as he works his talented fingers on my sides. I lay on my stomach and await his next move. He sweeps my hair to one side, his mouth latching onto my neck. "You like that, babe?"

"Mhmm…" My entire body hums from his ministrations. I keep my eyes closed; my body in the most relaxed state it's ever been. All of the night's previous events evaporating into the forgotten corners of my memory.

His hands slip between me and the bed. I arch into him and he takes advantage of the position to slide them up to my breasts. He cups them, full, in his large palms, and he lets out a long, ragged moan.

His mere touch lights a flame that spreads like wildfire through my veins. The strokes and caresses from my breasts down to the inside of my thighs has me whimpering for a contact even more fulfilling. Then, as if by accident, his knuckles brush between my legs. I open my legs a little wider for him, but I'm frustrated at the layers of fabric between us. He breathes in sharply as his hand hugs the seat of my work slacks. "So warm. I bet you're dripping."

I grind into his hand in an attempt to confirm his suspicion.

Elliot lets go, and I whine at the loss of contact. He shifts, lying next to me and pulls me against him so my back is still to his chest. One of his strong legs wraps around mine, pinning me into place so I can't get out of his hold. Not that I'd want to. He reaches around and snaps the button off, pulling my pants down just enough to give him room to play. His hand quickly finds its way under my lacy black panties, and without wasting a second, he slips in two fingers. He starts to fuck me with his fingers as his hot breath grazes my neck, murmuring how much he can't wait to slide his cock deep inside me.

"Oh, god…" The muscles below my abdomen tighten, the blood in my veins turning molten hot. I plead, "Yes… Right there. Oh, god, yes."

He sucks down on my neck as he impales me with three digits, curling the tips to press on that sweet spot, while his thumb applies a delicious pressure on my clit. I buck, losing control of my own body, as a breathless scream claws it way from deep in my lungs. It hits me from my sex and spreads throughout my body, from the top of my head down to the tips of my toes. And when the wave of my orgasm finally crashes and ebbs, I feel as if I've forgotten to breathe.

I only remember this basic human need, when I have to take a sharp breath as he flips me on my back and enters me in one fluid motion. He fills me to the hilt, and we groan simultaneously at the indescribable sensation. He holds himself tighter against me, his arm wrapped under me, pulling me up slightly so he can just dig himself in a little deeper. The light dances in front of my eyes and it's all I can bear before I close them.

"Make love to me, El."


End file.
